


The Parting Shot

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Attempted Murder, C-Sec, Character Death (not Sherlock or John), Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gunplay, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Major Character Injury, Past Violence, Post HLV, Season 3 compliant, Snogging, argument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson finally returns home to 221B for good with a new bullet wound and one less assassin to his name. He and Sherlock discuss the events over a drink and the talk gets heated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Parting Shot

They entered the room at 221B together, one by each entrance. John hobbled his way in through the living room door and proceeded to delicately crash-land on his overstuffed armchair while Sherlock entered through the kitchen door, keeping a close eye on his companion. John whooshed a sigh of relief as he sat, taking care not to bang his incapacitated right arm on anything on the way down. He re-positioned the sling so that it supported his wrist more completely in that way which doctors have of not being satisfied with another practitioner’s work. He looked over at the cheerfully blazing fire that Mrs. Hudson must have set for them. He was quite thankful for her efforts; the cold wind outside had gotten into his bones, especially the one newly-shattered by an assassin’s bullet.

He looked up in surprise as a short glass filled with ice cubes and three fingers of good scotch whiskey appeared over his injured shoulder. Sherlock smiled down at him and jiggled the glass, making the ice chime within. John accepted with a smile. 

“You know, Sherlock, considering the pain pills the doctor gave me at A&E, this may not be such a great idea,” he gibed as he took a long pull on his drink. He laid his head back against the bolster, eyes closed and a gentle smile playing across his lips. 

Sherlock smiled back. “You’re not going anywhere tonight, so I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” he responded before also partaking of a sip of whiskey from his own glass. “As it is, you’re lucky you’re still here on this plane of existence after this evening’s events.” 

He almost immediately regretted his observation as he saw a shadow cross John’s face, a knitting of his brow that indicated unpleasant thoughts or remembrances. It passed quickly and Sherlock, for once, had the good sense to let the moment pass without comment as well. They sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the crackle of the fire and the clinking of the ice as they drank. Sherlock sat in his low-slung chair, chewing on his lower lip while he considered what to say next. 

“Out with it,” John said, without opening his eyes or moving his head. “I can hear the gears of your brain clanking from over here.” 

Sherlock smiled gently but without mirth at the comment. He took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry, John, for what happened tonight. I truly am.” 

John barked a laugh that had no humor in it. “Why are you sorry, Sherlock? What did _you_ do wrong, besides try to survive?” He opened his eyes and gazed at his friend from across the short distance between their two disparate chairs. “Which, I’m sure, my not-so-dear departed wife was determined that you _shouldn’t_ do if _she_ had anything to say about it.” There was a tired anger in his tone as he downed another, rather large gulp of his scotch. 

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was gentle and softly modulated, “I’m sure she must have meant something to you at one time, otherwise you wouldn’t have married her. I’m just saying that I’m sorry she…well, that things had to take this path. That’s all.” 

“Well, I’m not sorry,” John said bluntly as he leaned forward in his chair. “If things had worked out any differently, you _would_ be dead, I _might_ be dead, and Mary would have disappeared into that underworld she was obviously so comfortable inhabiting. _Nobody_ kills my best friend twice.” He chortled to himself as he took another sip. 

Sherlock chuckled to himself. “You might want to take it a little easy on the scotch, John.” When John glared at him, he continued, “Just slow down a bit, okay? I’ll help you up to bed when you want to go and I don’t want to see you go cart-wheeling down a flight of stairs on too-potent a mixture of scotch and pain killers.” 

John waved his glass in the air carelessly. “I’m all right, Sherlock.” He giggled. “Which is more than I can say for David. He should have left all the dirty work to Mary. A high-class assassin he isn’t!” Both men laughed at the memory. “Hopefully he’ll be all right when he gets out of hospital, which, if I’m not mistaken, will probably be around the same time his baby leaves. If Lestrade doesn’t throw him in jail first.” 

Nodding while he turned his head toward the fire, Sherlock smirked as he said, “Well, I tried not to hit him too hard with that brass lamp. Unfortunately, I’m sure Monsieur Tiffany would be appalled at what happened to his signature lampshade. I’m afraid they’re going to be picking glass out of David’s scalp for quite a few hours. Hmmm,” he pondered, “I wonder how David’s going to take being a father. I mean, it’s due to your good work that he will be one at all. I was quite impressed.” 

John’s mouth assumed a tight-lipped expression, as though he had tasted something unpleasant. “Well, I couldn’t let the poor thing die just because I shot her mother in the head. Who,” he added, raising a finger in emphasis as Sherlock was opening his mouth, “was about to shoot you, so don’t _think_ for _one_ _second_ that I had a hard time with _that_ decision. Besides, it’s not that hard to do an emergency C-section once you’ve been in an active army medical unit. I’ve done much more complicated surgery than _that_ on the fly. _And_ you made an excellent nurse.” He smirked. “Obviously, Mary forgot that I’m left-handed or she wouldn’t have turned her attentions back to you so quickly.” 

“She would have killed me with the first shot if you hadn’t intervened,” Sherlock observed. He leaned toward John and pointed to his right shoulder where a fresh bullet wound lurked beneath a bandage and the sling. “Judging from where that wound is situated, and considering you were in motion at the time pushing _me_ out of the way, that bullet would have struck me dead in the heart. She wasn’t playing around this time.” He sat back in his chair and raised his glass to his flatmate. “Once again, John, I owe you my life, such as it is.” He downed the remainder of his drink, now mostly water, and set the glass down beside his chair. 

“You owe me nothing, Sherlock, you know that,” John sighed. His azure eyes lowered to his lap, where his glass was nearly empty as well. “I do wish it hadn’t ended like this, but better that she paid for her many and varied crimes with her own life than to let her take another innocent one.” His eyes flicked up and caught Sherlock’s with a strange intensity. “Especially if it were yours. I couldn’t allow that,” he said in a soft, caring voice. 

Sherlock had to look down to hide the sudden blurring of his vision. _Sentiment_ , he thought with a bitter laugh. _Nothing has changed. Mary is gone, John is back home, but nothing has changed…_

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock looked up to see John looking at him with a puzzled mien. “What are you laughing about? Care to share?” 

Sherlock half-smiled and stated, “Well, maybe next time you get married you’ll be a bit more careful and not go for someone who’s just a pretty face.” 

“ _Excuse_?” John said sharply and Sherlock slapped his hand across his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say anything like that. In that one moment of weakness he had let slip something better left locked away forever. “What are you implying? That I don’t know how to choose a mate? Do you honestly think that’s what this was all about? ‘Just another pretty face’; what, just like all the rest, is that it, Sherlock?” John sat up too quickly, wincing at the pain from his new wound. Sherlock leaned forward to help but John knocked his hand away. 

“No, John, I didn’t mean…I’m sorry, I… _shit_ ,” Sherlock cursed, an unusual-enough occurrence that John took note of it. “I didn’t mean to say anything, John. Can we just…delete it? Please?” 

John hadn’t seen Sherlock that distressed in quite a while, but he would be damned if he would let this one go. “No, Sherlock, we can’t. I want to know what you mean. What, exactly, should I have done instead, hmmm?” He slid to the front of the seat cushion and leaned in toward Sherlock, who was doing his best to simply melt through the back of his chair. He continued speaking, his ire building. “My best friend had just killed himself in front of me. My life—the new one I had just made with him---was done, gone, extinguished. There was no joy left for me. I sat in an empty flat contemplating taking my own life so I could be…” He choked off his words and pressed his left fist to his mouth while he composed himself, his eyes moist with memory. “It was Mary or suicide, Sherlock. Which would you have preferred? Tell me that. Which one, Sherlock? WHICH ONE?” He sat there, shaking, awaiting an answer. 

With his eyes closed, Sherlock hoped he could pretend he hadn’t just hurt and insulted his friend of so many years once John was finished with his tirade. It wasn’t that easy, however. The pain had bled through his words and into Sherlock’s brain, setting it afire with despair and remorse. He was having trouble breathing and something like cold iron was wrapped around his heart, crushing it with pitiless pressure. _I have to say something. What can I say that won’t make it worse?_ he wondered. 

“John,” he started, amazed at how broken and small his voice sounded. He stopped himself, mustering his will to start again. _Well, in for a penny, in for a pound._ “John,” he said, his voice stronger, more resonant, “maybe next time you should consider choosing a mate based on other considerations.” He was surprised at how forward that sounded, considering. 

The Stink Eye. Sherlock had heard tell of it but had never really seen it before now. Now it was focused on him in all its dubious glory. John had it fixed on him mercilessly. “And what, _pray tell_ , should I consider the next time I choose a mate, Oh Oracle of the East?” John ground out through gritted teeth. 

Sherlock was not in the least sure that continuing this conversation would be in the best interest of his continued well-being. John was sporting The Death Smile, which Sherlock knew all too well and never wanted to see turned his way. Things were not going well for the Home Team Detective. 

He lifted his chin defiantly and stated, “Next time, you should choose a mate based on more durable assets.” When he saw John raise an eyebrow, he continued. “Things like intellect, will, curiosity. More…mental attributes. And you should never even try for a…a ‘normal’, boring, suburban life. It doesn’t suit you, John.” He was running out of steam in the face of almost certain destruction and he knew it. _Last argument, and not even my best one._ “Plus, you should choose someone who…cares about you, deeply. Mary never really cared, never…loved you, did she? Did she, John?” 

The silence in the room was broken only by the sound of the wood popping when the fire hit a sap pocket. The last thing Sherlock saw before he closed his eyes was John’s incredulous expression. There was surprise, certainly, but mixed with it were other emotions, warring for supremacy. The combination of narcotic pain killers and alcohol was also fueling the unpredictable reaction roiling inside John. 

_Oh, God, what have I done now?_ was all that went through his mind as he gave himself over to whatever the powers of the universe had in store for him. The choices were, in actuality, quite limited. John could shoot him where he sat. John could throttle him, even with only one good arm. John could punch him in the face. John could verbally eviscerate him. John could simply go up to his room and pack, never to return. John could stay but never speak to him again. John could…

Kiss him. 

Sherlock’s eyes flew open in surprise as a pair of thin, newly-moistened lips touched his and withdrew. He had to admit, that was _not_ one of the choices he had entertained as a possible outcome. Yet, there was John, mere inches from his face, gazing into his eyes with warmth and—yes—humor. “Didn’t expect that, did you?” he asked quietly, a smug little smile on his face. 

_Blink. Blink. Blinkety blink blink._ This went on for some time. 

“Sherlock?” Pause. “Sherlock, you’re doing it again and you’re scaring me. Are you still in there?” 

A hand touched Sherlock’s face; the left one, since the right was still immobilized in a sling. The sensation woke Sherlock to the here-and-now. “John?” he whispered. “What…?” 

“Did you honestly think I didn’t know where you were going with this?” John grinned. 

“But you…that is…I thought…,” Sherlock stammered, hands fluttering in different directions as he tried to complete a coherent thought, “you were so angry with me, and I thought…the drugs, the alcohol… maybe you would…” He stopped himself and simply uttered a plaintive and perplexed “John…?” 

John was kneeling on the floor between Sherlock’s knees, his injured arm resting on his right leg. He nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I guess I did start to lose it there for a moment, and I’m sorry, Sherlock. Everything you said…you were right. It was kind of a slap in the face, but you were right. I did make a choice based off of the wrong reasons. Not necessarily because of looks, but because I was so lost and empty and I needed something to plug that hole in my heart before I bled to death.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes again and whispered, “John, I am so sorry…” 

“Don’t be. My God, Sherlock, I can’t even begin to tell you how happy I am to be back here, with you. I look back on everything that’s happened since you returned and it’s been like a slow-motion train wreck. Nothing felt right, but I didn’t know how to _make_ it right. Now we’re back where we should be, together, and we’ll face whatever comes at us together, like it used to be, like it always should have been.” He touched his forehead to Sherlock’s, weaving his good hand into the mass of curly hair behind it. “You and me against the world, you once said. Are you still game to try it?” 

It’s really hard to answer a question while viciously snogging.


End file.
